


A Chance Encounter-Bucky Meets Natasha

by Seicopath (RileyLux)



Category: Marvel, Winter Soldier - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:00:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24591193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyLux/pseuds/Seicopath
Summary: James "Bucky" Barnes meets Natasha Romanoff, who is stationed in Brooklyn, a few days before he is deployed to Europe. The pair share one night of passion with plans to meet for dinner the following night.Rated Mature for Sexual Activity
Relationships: Winterwidow
Kudos: 17





	A Chance Encounter-Bucky Meets Natasha

Within a dimly lit bar in Brooklyn, the torch lamp set wall adjacent to the piano casts shadows that dance across the chiseled features of the young man perched on the instrument's bench. The slender fingers that drift across ebony and ivory keys give voice to the melody that spills through the space, the James Buchanan Barnes lost within the moment. Only a few days remain before the young man abandons Brooklyn for a foreign land and to face an enemy that seeks dominion over the free world. Dread paces along the young man's nerves, an odd prodding at the mind of pending doom. Tonight, he fights against macabre thoughts with gin and music, eager to add the company of a woman to his arsenal.

Lifting focus from the keys, his gaze lands on the redhead that strolls past him, the woman's figure the perfect formation of curves and contours snuggly wrapped in a navy dress that flares at the hip. Although the beauty's gaze only flickers towards him, he is certain the faintest smile curls crimson-stained lips, the stern set of his jaw softening with a smirk in response. Standing, he draws on the navy suit jacket, the attire the best he owns and most appropriate for a final night on the town, elegant fingers then buttoning it. Weaving around a patron impeding the path towards the company he hopes to have for the evening, Bucky plucks a rose from its vase on a near table, a gift for the redhead. Leaning down, an arm snakes around the woman's slender shoulders as he offers the rose, its crimson petals lush like velvet.

"A rose for a rose," he murmurs, "Care for some company, doll?"

The young woman's voice bears a subtle accent he cannot place, but one most certainly not American, as she grants the other the pleasure of her company. At this moment, Bucky is unaware that this woman's voice will burn so deeply into his mind she will haunt him through the halls of hell.

As the band takes the stage, he straightens and grants more space between them but offering his hand.

"A chance to hold a beautiful girl against me before I ship off would be a dream, doll." Bucky offers a slight bow as lips brush over the knuckles of the delicate hand now lightly clasped by his own, "James Buchanan Barnes, but you can call me Bucky. Care to dance, doll?"

Upon the other's introduction as Natasha Romanoff, their fingers become entwined, Bucky's thumb skimming across the knuckles he just kissed, and he leads her to the dance floor. As the jazz band's notes lure couples to the stage, the young man sweeps an arm around his companion's waist as the opposite, still clasping Natasha's hand, draws her nearly flush against his chest. As the redhead's hips nearly brush against his own, the soft swish of her skirt against his trousers draws a smirk and then a question,

"How is it I've never seen you before, Miss Romanoff? Brooklyn isn't so big that I would forget a stunner like you, doll." Natasha returns with a coy comment that Bucky is a curious creature to which he replies, lips brushing against the shell of her ear,  
"You have no idea how curious I am, but I'm more than happy to show you."

A kiss ghosts across the curve of a porcelain cheek before Bucky's arm raises and Natasha ducks beneath it then gracefully spins, the sergeant's gaze dropping to the tone thighs the swirling skirt reveals. Capturing Natasha again, a hand lowers to rest at the small of her back, with fingers splaying so the end one brushes against her backside. The upbeat tune creates an atmosphere of laughter and swirling skirts, most couple's abandoning decorum for hands to wanders as the looming departure of many seems to shorten the time. At the evening's end, Natasha and Bucky each glistening with a hint of perspiration, she asks if he will behave like a gentleman and escort her home.

"What kind of gentleman would I be if I didn't walk you home, doll?" Barnes returns, a smirk tracing his lips as he cups Natasha's face, a thumb grazing over the seam of her plush lips. "I will behave until the moment you beg me not to." Pausing beneath the inky sky, he releases hold of Natasha's hand only for the few seconds required to remove his jacket and drape it over her slender shoulders.

"See, gentleman," he reminds her, a wink punctuating the utterance. A chill accompanies them, a thunderstorm rolling across the ocean threatening the night, and Natasha offers a cup of tea in lieu of the traditional nightcap.

Miss Romanoff is unlike any woman Bucky encountered in the past or knows currently, the woman delivering innuendos with a coy smile. Ascending the concrete stairs towards the apartment building lobby, Bucky captures the brief moment Natasha pauses to slip a key into the lock, the domicile much more refined than his own shoddy apartment building. As a singular finger coasts the column of her throat than ghosts along the curve of her shoulder, he offers,

"If you've got honey for the tea I'd be more than happy to drizzle it places other than just in the cup."

The space between them grows heavy with desire, the need of each for the other fanning the spark that the dancing birthed into a flame. The honey jar that sits within the tea kettle's shadow lures the young man closer, the quiet grating of metal against glass sounding before a singular finger traces the curve of the jar's mouth, the tip dipping into the amber substance. Raising his index finger, the tip now coated in golden sweetness, Bucky's tongue flicks over it, an appreciative hum sounding.

"You think you taste this sweet, doll?"

Just as he teases Natasha, Natasha teases him, a delicate finger coated in golden honey slipping between crimson-stained plush lips, Bucky's only reply that of teeth pressing against his lower lip. Obviously, the young man imagines it is his length to which Natasha attends and not her finger, but his imagination soon moves to a darker place, gaze lingering on the apex of her thighs, the navy skirt an annoyance. Closing what little space remains between them, hands now tucked within his trousers' pockets, his lips brush against her ear,

"I bet you taste salty-sweet, like caramel corn, strawberries, and cream." In no other manner does Bucky touch Natasha, "I'm not really much of a gentleman, Nat."

For all that Bucky may do to tempt Natasha, she does the same, the brush of plush lips against his throat causing pocketed fingers to clench and a low groan to emit before he murmurs,

"I'd accuse you of being a tease, but think I started this," his voice husky and grated with lust before warm lips trail down the column of her throat, beginning at her jaw and ending at her shoulder. Bucky cannot see the coquettish smile that curls her crimson-glossed lips but the flirtatious tone that paints her husky voice, Natasha accusing him of being a tease, coupled with the gentle massage of his thigh, is the only urging he needs. The young man sweeps crimson locks over her shoulder, nuzzling her neck as slender fingers deftly release the buttons marking the dress' bodice.

"I told you I'm not really a gentleman," he hums against her ear, teeth nipping the lobe, "but tell me to stop and I will." A bruising kiss accompanies the assurance, a hand roughly cupping her chin before he claims her lips.

As she leads him to the bedroom, Bucky's light eyes lower to her sashaying hips, her curvaceous backside drawing his mind down a path of carnal pleasure, the young man eager to delve into the paradise held between her thighs. Within his trousers, the ache has become nearly unbearable, the brunet's fingers releasing the button before lowering the zipper. A sigh of relief sounds, Bucky's hand lightly massaging his length, which remains within the confines of the cloth, before the young man unknots his tie as Natasha slips free of her dress then undergarments.

"Doll, you are a sight…hell, I don't know if I'll make it to taste every inch of you with you looking like that," he teases, lips curling into a cocky smirk as slender digits unknot his tie, the accessory slipping free from beneath his shirt's collar. Slipping off his shoes, but not removing any other item, Bucky nears the bed, the tie dangling from his fingers, "Put your arms above your head, Natasha," he orders before crawling onto the bed.

She obeys but challenges him with both smile and touch.

"Vixen," Bucky praises, teeth dragging over his lower lip at the gentle pressure of Natasha's foot against his hardened length, the male's erection tenting the boxers. Tapered fingers begin a languid journey the length of her toned legs, beginning at her ankles before grazing the curve of her calves then thighs, Bucky's mouth follows suit, lips ghosting the length of Natasha's legs until her thighs are reached. Hovering above her, forearms bearing his weight, he rolls his hips against her legs, the male's erect length pressing against her calves. Lifting his gaze to her, the command he utters is simple and holds the promise of his intention. "Open your thighs, Red."

From the apex of her thighs emits a fragrance so sweetly exotic that Bucky groans before the smirk returns, the young man shaking his head in response to her complaint that he wears too much clothing.

"Not yet, doll, not yet."

Strong fingers knead her backside, Bucky's hands slipped beneath Natasha to lift her hips, an angle that allows an easier feast. Against her ivory silken flesh, his smooth jaw grazes, Bucky's nose running over his lover's folds as he inhales the sweet fragrance, exhaled breath warm against her. Within the glow of the bedside lamp, the blue of Barnes' eyes seems flecked with silver as he meets her eyes, the man an eager participant and audience to the looming undoing of Natasha. He holds her gaze as tongue caresses the seam of her petals, Bucky pausing just below her mound for his tongue to sweep beneath the tiny hood of flesh cloaking her clitoris. The whine that slips past Natasha's garnet-stained lips serves as a reward for the gentle brushing of Bucky's tongue against that sensitive bundle of tiny nerves before slipping across her folds once more.

As she begins to writhe beneath his touch, he returns to draw the keenly sensitive nub between his lips, tongue swirling as a hand slips from cupping the redhead's backside to rounding her hip before sliding between her thighs. Bucky grants a few centimeters of space to allow for a single finger to push into her warm core, the walls tightening around the digit and luring a groan from him.

Each tremor that dances through Natasha's voluptuous form, each moan that passes lush lips, and each undulation of her hips offers Bucky a road map to guiding the redhead to orgasmic ecstasy. The young man has entertained many women, both his age and older, but none tasted as divine as Natasha, the sweetness of her arousal, which coats his lips and jaw. Almost involuntarily, Bucky's hips roll against the mattress, his aching length desperately requiring friction to alleviate some tension, as the finger within her heated center hooks, the pad pressing against the sensitive bundle of nerves buried deep within her as he teases her clitoris, his tongue languidly circling around it. For only the time required to utter his praise, Bucky's mouth parts from the apex of her thighs,

"Doll, you taste amazing."

Even as her lithe yet curvaceous body writhes beneath his touch, Bucky continues to torment the apex of her thighs until she unravels, Natasha's husky moan echoing within the bedroom as her crimson-tipped finger palm his head. Once she calms, and after he licks the arousal that coats his lips, he praises,

"Definitely sweeter than most."

Despite her protests, the newly minted sergeant pushes himself off the bed, adjusted his aching length before drawing on the trousers abandoned at the bed's edge.

"Dinner before anything else, doll. Tomorrow, meet me at the club."


End file.
